De Gollyer, approaching at last the great question, assumed an air of concentrated firmness, tempered with well-mannered delicacy.
"My dear boy, I beg your pardon. As a matter of fact it has always been fifteen thousand—quite right, quite so; but—now, my dear boy, you are too much of a man of the world to be offended, aren't you?"
"No," said Lightbody, staring in front of him. "No, I'm not offended."
"Of course it's delicate, ticklishly delicate ground, but then we must look things in the face. Now if you'd rather I—"
"No, go on."
"Of course, dear boy, you've had a smashing knock and all that sort of thing, but—" suddenly reaching out he took up the letter, and, letting it hang from his fingers, thoughtfully considered it—"I say it might be looked at in this way. Yesterday it was fifteen thousand a year to dress up a dashing wife, modern New York style, the social pace, clothes that must be smarter than Thingabob's wife, competitive dinners that you stir up with your fork and your servants eat, and all that sort of thing, you know. To-day it's fifteen thousand a year and a bachelor again."
Releasing the letter, he disdainfully allowed it to settle down on the desk, and finished:
"Come now, as a matter of fact there is a little something consoling, isn't there?"
From the moment he had perceived De Gollyer's idea. Lightbody had become very quiet, gazing steadily ahead, seeing neither the door nor the retaining walls.
"I never thought of that," he said, almost in a whisper.